


ships with holes will sink

by lemon_demon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Purple Prose, This Is STUPID, author is russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_demon/pseuds/lemon_demon
Summary: What you have with Dirk Strider is a whole another story: it could be written in an impressive looking book with dusty dry flowers in between the pages, with colourful bookmarks and folded corners. But you discovered a simple word for it: a catastrophe.
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Dirk Strider
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	ships with holes will sink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ascendedGodhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascendedGodhead/gifts).



> look, i kno i orphaned this, but... now i want it back on my account again, so bear with me, ok?  
> oh, and: my english sucked way more at that time, so i edited this slightly and added/deleted some details. hopefully it's better now

1  
'I mean, if you did something bad, you have to pay for it one way or another. Don'tcha think, honey?'

A bartender cleans out the third glass, rises it to look at the lights reflecting in it and then smirks at you. Her blonde hair is cut short, messy and barely reaches her jaw; her black lipstick is a little bit smeared on the edges. She's been flirting with you, you think, for the whole evening. It's a funny thing, funny and unusual. People don't treat you with kindness that often. Or flirt with you. You're quite unsure of what to do. But you'd lie if you said that talking to her isn't pleasant. You just hope no one will fire her. She's nice.  
'Yeah, Rox.'  
You don't like liquor that much. You find it too sweet and overwhelming. However, today you want to distract yourself as best as you can, even if it means violating your tastebuds. You had a long and boring day full of annoying people you hate; had to listen them talk, had to respond with something that made sense instead of 'oh my fuckin' god, w-will you shut up.' The exhaustion hits you in one big, heavy wave.  
Needless to say that you already struggle to think properly.  
Your fingers twitch; you instinctively cover your stomach with your palm.  
'Let me pay for my orders, though.'  
'You're done? Well, good for you, boy. You were drinking that thing a little bit too desperately, no offense.'  
You thank Roxy for her company and give her the cash. She bends over the counter to take it. You huff and walk away; Rox waves you goodbye, giggling.  
Everything feels raw and painful, even though you're floating in a heavy, thick fog. The fresh night air makes you shiver after being in a warm room with a lot of strangers breathing in and out the same oxygen that smells like alcohol and shitty cigarettes. You light up your own and hesitate, standing next to the front door with a neon sign. It seems that walking home alone at this time could be a bad idea when you're not exactly sober and your knees are wobbly; calling Uber would be so fucking easy, just a few clicks. But you shake your head and go home on your own.

2  
It's not that he likes you, he just doesn't care enough to hate you. You don't push him or ask him to show at least some kind of emotion: you're not sure if he's hiding them or he's bad at proper human reactions that don't involve fucking around to avoid the topic for as long as possible. You never liked when people told you how to express yourself, so you stopped letting them, and you weren't going to follow their patterns, no way.  
For you, stalking a person online was easy. You didn't think it was wrong: in fact, you didn't even notice when you did that. You just used the magic power of search button and keywords, checked their social media and used the bits of information you were told about them if they were someone who you briefly knew. You're not a creep, you only want to understand what you're dealing with. At least that's what you say to yourself.  
Something that Sollux would do. You try not to think about him; his name cuts right through you. When you think about Sollux it's like a thick needle diving straight into you ear, stabbing your brain repeatedly.  
You texted Strider before; there was a big group chat thing five years ago and he'd usually just read everyone's messages without saying a word. If he even read them, of course.  
It's not that you like him, but there are things from your past you make yourself forget and there are people from your past who ghost over your life. You can't help but reopen your own wounds and sprinkle this disaster with a little bit of salt. You can't help but look for their new accounts and stare at their icons and bite your cheek. You deleted all of the old logs, but you know they're saved on your laptop in a nice folder without a name. You never touch it.  
When you message him you make sure to be the most obnoxious little shit. He doesn't really remember you that well and if he knew what you did he probably wouldn't answer. Only a few know; it's a secret you all keep in a pretty little box, a secret you're gonna carry around till the end of your days, 'cause you have to pay one way or another, right?  
He annoys the hell out of you, too. For you, Strider is a convenience, a free show and a mystery. You realise that you know nothing about him, and he never tells you anything personal.  
So you turn it into your dumb, pointless goal: you want to gain his trust.

3  
Strider is not, in fact, convenient. You understand the gravity of it three months later. He's like a personal project you never really wanted in the first place but you did a decent part of it already and now you can't bring yourself to drop it. Now you maybe, kinda, sorta enjoy working on it.  
It's not that he likes you, but sometimes, when he looks at you, his face changes only a bit, as if he was about to frown but stopped himself in time.  
Strider is not a Halloween treat, but a citrus tang on the tip of your tonge that comes after drinking the cocktails Roxy always makes for you. His hand is hot in yours and his shoulders are bare because he likes to wear shirts without sleeves whenever it's possible. Sometimes you touch his skin there, lightly.  
You choose not to inform Strider about things you did, but you don't try to hide from him the fact of you being an awful person. You show Dirk Strider almost exactly how awful you can be—that's in your nature, to hurt them before they hurt you.  
You don't pretend that you care for stuff you don't give a shit about. You complain, fuss over ridiculous things. You're rude and annoying and your moral compass is broken forever; you hate people; you need their attention because when there's no one, you don't feel real. You're hypocritical and outrageously boring when you talk about anything you have passion for. You... no, these things better stay hidden and rot.

For some reason it simply makes him chuckle. Like you're not an asshole, like you're a funny joke. When you insult him, he only returns it back.

Six months pass: he stops wearing shades when he's alone with you.

4  
What you're having with Dirk Strider could be called A Hatesex That Never Starts.  
Strider is: hands, strong and expirienced hands, those hands that are flaming hot, but dry; hands that grab your hair and pull back slowly, with fingers pinching your ears mockingly, irritatingly. Strider is: not convenient, a plan that went wrong, a ship that didn't turn back in time and rocked yours, shattered it completely, and the remains from both of you are now left deep underwater.  
Strider is a fucking pain in the ass and you don't say that he's a tease, don't say it out loud—it would mean losing the game. Strider is a goddamn desert, a sun burning you, the lost traveler, alive.

  
_Travelers are never lost. It's what we say to describe our hearts tearing apart in our chests for no particular reason._

5  
Strider is not convenient, he's a stupid reckless asshole that rolls up your shirt and instead of going further like he is fucking meant to, he goes still and stares.  
You know what he's staring at. His face changes. He traces the big scar with the back of his hand gently and his breathing evens out. It's the gentleness of it that makes you sick.  
'How fuckin' dare you?' you hiss.  
He doesn't respond.  
You slap him. You push him away, fix your clothes and leave. This night you return wasted like you've never been before, and he says that your drinking is getting out of control; you laugh in his face, drop down the bottle, listen to the glass breaking.

6  
Sometimes people do very bad, messed up shit, get away with it, never face the aftermath. You weren't one of them.  
It's only fair.  
What Kanaya did was aganist the law, but you did stuff much worse, so you shut your mouth tight and waited for Kurloz, trying not to howl in pain (you failed). It wasn't a neat cut, but it wasn't that bad—which surprised you, because she totally didn't give a shit about hitting anything important when she stabbed you. Everything was white and coldness spread through your body like a desease; you lost your vision for a long moment, but still kept seeing Sollux's eyes that you tried digging your nails into and Fef's frightened expression.  
They both were fine in the end, and you got what you deserved for attempting to ruin them. You pay one way or another, don'tcha think, honey?

7  
Dirk says that your old jersey looks good on you, and you throw the thing away as soon as you have a chance to.  
Dirk hugs you, and for a second you relax, close your eyelids. But only for a second. You put his hands away and tell him to fuck off.  
You don't need his pity. You don't need a babysitter. And you don't need him. You hate your pathetic excuse for a relationship-friendship-fucking-whatever. You hate the way he looked at you, the way his face actually twisted into a frown. Poor guy, couldn't help it.

Leave.

Get off me.

hurt. me.

8  
What you have with Dirk Strider is a whole another story: it could be written in an impressive looking book with dusty dry flowers in between the pages, with colourful bookmarks and folded corners. But you discovered a simple word for it: a catastrophe. You think that forgetting your own name in isolation would be better than talking to him or seeing him whatsoever. You don't know what he wants from you, if he wants anything at all, if you owe him. You want no shit from him now, that's what you say.  
You don't understand his intentions. You were digging yourself a grave when you clicked on his nickname.  
What you have with Dirk Strider is an exchange of information.  
Dirk turns out to be slightly better than you.

9  
He never snaps at you, and the sensation from that is similar to choking on chlorine.


End file.
